


No One Expects the Punquisition

by Elvhenan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Puns & Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvhenan/pseuds/Elvhenan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p><p>Omega Dorian flees Tevinter when he learns his father was about to force-bond him with blood magic to an alpha he loathes. However, said alpha tracks Dorian down at Skyhold and tries to demand that Dorian be handed over to him. Cue a duel where Dorian's LI has to fight the alpha to get him to leave them alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Expects the Punquisition

**Author's Note:**

> Punny fic title strikes again, and it's my own creation this time (though it's probably been said before by someone). This time it's somewhat more relevant to the fic content, however. XD

Dorian finds the Inquisitor, after much searching and asking no less than three scouts along the way, with his nose buried in a book in the disused library beneath the main hall. "Amatus," he says, and quirks a smile as Mahanon jumps guiltily, having been so absorbed in the book he missed hearing the door open. "I have been looking all over for you. I suppose I should have started in the least likely places first, yes? I'll remember that next time."

"What is it?" Mahanon asks as he climbs to his feet and winces as his back and rear end protest. He puts the book back on the shelf and stretches, smiling as Dorian comes up behind him.

"I can't just want to spend time with you, amatus?" Dorian asks innocently.

Mahanon chuckles and turns in Dorian's embrace, then raises an eyebrow. "Of course, but--"

Dorian silences him with a kiss. "Come on, I've arranged for dinner in my room and it'll be getting cold by now."

"It's dinnertime already?" Mahanon blinks, recalling how it had been early afternoon when he'd started reading.

"An early dinner," Dorian says, taking Mahanon's hand and leading him out.

Mahanon notes as they walk through the kitchen that Dorian is taking a rather circuitous route, and he stops three stairs down from the kitchen door, planting his feet. "Why are we avoiding the main hall, vhenan?"

"Oh, no reason at all," Dorian says airily, tugging on Mahanon's hand but the elf refuses to be budged.

"Inquisitor!" Cullen calls out, hurrying toward them.

Dorian hisses a few choice curses in Tevene as he scowls at Cullen, as there's no way to quietly slip away now that they've been spotted.

"There's a visitor causing quite a fuss--" Cullen begins, but Dorian interrupts him.

"The Inquisitor can deal with that _after_ dinner," Dorian says flatly.

"I don't think that's possible, actually," Cullen says evenly, though he shoots Mahanon an apologetic smile. "This visitor and his guards brought this letter with a rather official looking seal on it. He's quite adamantly refusing to leave the main hall until, and I quote, 'Dorian is presented to us ready to leave,' so it's not something that can wait for long."

"Well then, give this letter over and the Inquisitor and I shall discuss its contents over dinner," Dorian says, holding out his free hand while the other tightens on Mahanon's hand.

Mahanon glances between Cullen and Dorian for a moment, then nods permission to the Commander. "Might as well, and have Josephine see to it that this visitor is sufficiently stalled from making more of a scene. I'm hardly going to hand over a member of the Inquisition on someone's demand, anyway."

"Very well, Inquisitor," Cullen says, handing the letter to Dorian with reluctance.

Once Cullen is out of earshot Dorian curses again under his breath and all but drags Mahanon with him, still avoiding the main hall but with more deliberate purpose.

"What's going on, vhenan?" Mahanon asks softly as he lets Dorian lead him up the stairs and toward Cullen's office, quite the hike just to avoid one area.

"I was planning to tell you eventually, but there never seemed to be a good time," Dorian says with a frustrated sigh. "This letter," he pauses to hold it up, "is from the alpha my father tried to mate me off to before I left. No doubt it contains a copy of the betrothal contract and all the legal papers signing me over to him, with or without my approval or consent."

Mahanon stumbles just slightly and blinks at Dorian. "And he's sent a retainer to, what, just pick you up and take you home?" he asks, a note of incredulity in his tone.

"Apparently," Dorian says sourly. "Since my father couldn't persuade me to come home, I suppose he decided to inform my betrothed of my whereabouts."

"He'll have to return empty-handed, then."

"A nice thought, but it's not that simple, amatus," Dorian says as they finally arrive at Dorian's room, having gone through Solas' area and then through the library. Dorian opens the letter only after they've both sat down at the small table, and he reads it with a furrowed brow and a frown.

Mahanon picks at his food as he watches Dorian, curious about the letter but patient enough to wait. From what he can see it's in Tevene anyway, which means Dorian would have to read it to him and translate. He's just taking a bite of chicken when Dorian separates half the letter and hands it to him.

"That part's for you, or rather 'the alpha in command of the Inquisition,' which tells you all you need to know about the sort of alpha my betrothed is," Dorian comments dryly, making a face.

Mahanon's expression goes from expectant to the blank mask that Sera has dubbed 'the Inky face,' a sign that he's pissed off and hiding it behind a veneer of professionalism. He sets down the piece of chicken, wipes his hands on a napkin, and picks up the sheaf of parchment to read, noting it's in the common tongue of Ferelden. He skims the first page and his expression darkens slightly, his lips thinning as he reads.

"He's bluffing, I hope," Mahanon says as he finishes the letter and sets it down with a decisive slap beside his plate.

"I'm afraid not," Dorian replies with a shake of his head. "It's all entirely legal, despite being a usage of an archaic law, but there is of course the matter of actually enforcing it."

"Ah, yes, the part where I refuse to hand you over and he can do nothing about it, right?"

"Quite so, though I'm sure that won't stop him from trying to make things difficult through any methods he can," Dorian says. "Not that the Inquisition and Tevinter are on the best of terms as it is, what with the Venatori business."

Mahanon sighs and rubs his face wearily. "That's a task for Josephine's skills, then."

"Yes, and mine since you have no head for political scheming, which I remind you is part of your charm, quaint as it is."

Mahanon lets that comment slide with no more than a roll of his eyes. "So what are our options?"

Dorian sits back and strokes his moustache thoughtfully. "While you hold no legal authority or position in Tevinter, you do lead the Inquisition even if he refuses to recognize that on account of you being omega--"

"And an elf," Mahanon interrupts, glaring at the letter.

Dorian winces slightly. "And that, yes. But as I was saying, he may have the legal papers all in order, but without a way to actually 'claim' me according to the law, none of it is actually binding. Therefore, we don't even need to acknowledge this retainer of his, and should he attempt to throw his weight around via threatening diplomatic incidents, Josephine is more than capable of keeping him from causing any harm to the Inquisition's reputation, and by extension your own. Not to mention Leliana could probably dig up enough dirt on the bastard to make even my father reconsider the betrothal contract."

Mahanon raises his eyebrows as he considers the choices, resting his chin on his hands. "Or I could duel him," he says offhandedly, though he can't help but grin impishly at Dorian's appalled look. "Kicking his arse would be rather satisfying."

"Certainly not! I won't have you put yourself at risk on my account." Dorian crosses his arms and attempts a glower, though it falters at Mahanon's unfazed look. "Besides, dueling is so old-fashioned and archaic, and--you're set on it already, aren't you." He sighs as if terribly put-upon and rubs his eyes.

"Ma vhenan, I know you don't like me meddling in your affairs, but one Tevinter Magister, alpha or not, is hardly going to be the most difficult battle I've yet fought for the Inquisition, firstly, and secondly, I'd do far more than fight some knothead for _you_ , and if you don't know that by now," he pauses to reach out and clasp Dorian's hands in his own, "then I shall have to find some other way to prove it to you."

Dorian is speechless for a few heartbeats before his mask falls back into place. "Amatus, you have nothing at all to prove to me, and while I appreciate the sentiment and the gesture, I'd much rather you not get involved at all."

Mahanon frowns and sighs. " _Dorian_ , I was reading up on Tevinter laws just the other day, and this is the most efficient way to get this alpha to leave you _and_ the Inquisition alone. If you'd rather not see it as some romantic gesture I won't complain, but please, vhenan, this isn't about debts or meddling, or even honor and pride, though considering the insults he's dealt me already, I _am_ involved rather personally, beyond the fact _we're_ together."

"Feeling possessive then, are you?" Dorian asks lightly, though there's an edge to his tone.

"You'd rather allow Josephine and Leliana to meddle in your affairs than me?" Mahanon retorts mildly. "Though if you're insulted at the presumption of _my_ claim to you, I suppose that's a different matter."

"Well, for starters, an omega in a relationship with another omega is not recognized at all in Tevinter, which is why I'm here and not there," Dorian says flatly. "You dueling him might make him drop his claim to me if you win, out of shame at losing to an omega if nothing else, but it will be ultimately meaningless otherwise."

" _If_ I win?" Mahanon asks in mock affront. "Vhenan, I've slain three dragons, as you well know since you helped with two of them. Surely Tevinter has no Magisters even half as difficult as that."

"Don't underestimate Magisters, amatus," Dorian snaps, then sighs as he slouches in his chair. "Besides the fact he'll likely use blood magic, especially if he thinks he's losing, I don't trust him to play fair in any capacity whatsoever. Which is why I'd rather leave it in the capable hands of Josephine and Leliana."

"I will not put Inquisition agents at risk over knothead alpha bullshit, vhenan," Mahanon says firmly, pinning Dorian with a determined gaze. "He will answer my challenge one way or another, and I will end this nonsense."

"Well, when you put it so tactfully, how can I refuse?" Dorian mutters sourly. "Not that refusing is an option, apparently."

Mahanon scowls, picks up his version of the letter, finds the page he wants, and hands it to Dorian. "Fifth paragraph, read it and tell me if you'd allow that insult to slide, on either of our behalfs, let alone the Inquisition's."

Dorian's expression mirrors Mahanon's as he reads, and when he's done he glances up at his lover with a bitterly amused look. "Ah, well then, by all means kick his arse into next week."

"Clearly, he wants a fight, and I'm more than happy to give it to him."

"Regardless of the fact he's baiting you, naturally," Dorian says with a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "'Not about pride,' indeed."

Mahanon shrugs casually, though his gaze doesn't waver from Dorian. "I have had quite enough of being underestimated, let alone having my authority questioned on account of being omega and Dalish, vhenan. If I have to kick the arse of some knothead Magister to rub it in, it is worth it."

 

The duel was arranged within the week, much to Mahanon's satisfaction. The alpha, a Magister by the name of Felicianus Maximus no less, agreed to meet them in the Western Approach, and Mahanon traveled there with a retinue consisting of Dorian, Sera, Iron Bull, Varric, Cole, and Cassandra, along with some scouts and soldiers at Cullen's insistence. The Magister was currently surveying the setup of his camp on the other side of a large ring, pointedly ignoring them for the moment.

"Felici _anus_ Maximus? Really? That's overkill," Iron Bull tsked, making a point of speaking loudly.

Mahanon nods agreeably, also pitching his voice to carry as he shrugs out of his outer robe. "He makes it too easy, really. It's rather sad, don't you think?"

"His parents must loathe him," Dorian adds, joining in.

"I can't imagine why." Mahanon shakes his head as if in regret as he pretends to knock sand off his bare feet with the end of his staff.

"Why did his parents name him 'easy ass'? He looks more like a tightass," Iron Bull says, tilting his head and squinting at the Magister who was now definitely glaring at them, as were a few of his men.

"Yeah, looks like a right arse-kettle, he does," Sera agrees, shifting on her feet.

"In that atrocious getup, I must admit it's difficult to tell anything about his arse," Dorian comments dryly, one arm crossed over his chest with the other's elbow resting on his wrist as he strokes his moustache.

"Dresses like he took fashion tips from a blighted nug," Sera quips with a nod.

"There are _way_ too many jokes there," Varric says from a few paces away, snorting to cover his laugh.

"I'm sure we can fit a few more in, with the right lubricant," Mahanon muses with a straight face, just barely holding his cackles in.

"Ugh! I hate you for that mental image," Sera complains, covering her face and shuddering.

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. "If you gentlemen, and lady, are _quite_ finished--"

"But Seeker, we're just getting _started_!" Varric ambles up to them, lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

Mahanon grins as he nonchalantly leans against his staff and meets the alpha's glare boldly across the ring. "Bets on whether his middle name is 'Gluteus'?"

"I'm in for a silver," Varric chimes in.

"Raise ya two," Sera says, leaning on her bow.

"Only that much? I'll bet five gold for 'close enough,' considering it is," Dorian comments with a careless wave of his hand.

"That's cheating if you know it already," Varric chides, chuckling.

By this point Cassandra's lips are twitching and she has to turn away to compose herself.

"What's the Tevene word for 'fart,' Dorian?" Mahanon asks, feigning innocence.

"Enough!" Cassandra all but yells, throwing her hands up as she stalks off behind a tent.

Mahanon cocks his head and grins as he hears her burst out laughing a moment later. "Success! You owe me three silvers, Varric, pay up." He holds out his hand expectantly.

"Ugh, fine, fine." Varric makes a show of reluctance as he digs into his coinpurse and drops three silvers into Mahanon's waiting hand.

"The Punquisition, at your service, Magister Tightass," Iron Bull calls out, finally giving in to his amusement with a loud laugh.

One of the more floridly dressed members of the Magister's retinue stalks to one side of the ring carrying a large, official looking scroll tucked under one arm.

"And so it begins, finally!" Mahanon says as he stretches casually and feigns a yawn. "Guess Magister Arsehole has finally had enough punishment."

"Ugh, that was terrible," Varric says, making a face of disgust that rivals Cassandra's best.

"If he wasn't going to kill you before, he certainly will try now, amatus," Dorian says, his expression both pained and amused by the last pun.

"Worry not, ma vhenan, I have slain dragons with more ass than this Magister that's dressed in a court jester's rejected costume," Mahanon says gallantly as he pushes his cowl back and makes the last adjustments to his outfit. On the Iron Bull's advice, he wore what Sera called 'full elfy' for his clothing choice: a Keeper robe and mage cowl embroidered with Dalish patterns, along with a staff carved with halla and other 'elfy' things. The effect, much like the long round of mocking, was to boost morale while eroding the enemy's to make them careless. The strategy seems to be working well, if the Magister's tight grip on his staff and his red-faced shaking rage were any indication.

"Opponents, take your places!" the brightly liveried retainer booms out. "Weapons are to be staves only, and the use of blood magic, in addition to the calling of spirits or upon allies for aid, is expressly forbidden. Healing magic or potions, and lyrium potions, are limited to two of each per opponent. The duel ends when one opponent is rendered unable to continue or stand, as per the assessment of the attendant witnesses."

Mahanon glances across the ring to ensure the Magister was still watching him as the retainer recites the rules and terms, turns to give Dorian a deep kiss to make a few points at once, then saunters to his place with a smirk. Though his act of confidence doesn't waver for a moment, he knows the Magister will find a way to make him pay for the many jokes at his expense.

"We bear witness today to the duel between Magister Felicianus Coccius--" there was a collective _snort_ from one side of the ring, "--Maximus and Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan, for the honor and hand of the omega of House Pavus, Dorian."

Mahanon's ears twitch ever so slightly as the retainer mangles the pronunciation of his name, very likely on purpose, but he otherwise ignores it to stare unblinking at his opponent.

"Does it count if they can't even get his name right?" Iron Bull stage whispers to Varric.

"I don't know, but humans sure are cruel to their kids in Tevinter," Varric responds. "Remind me to send his family suggestions for his epitaph. I've got a few good ones saved up that'll make anyone roll in their graves."

"On my mark," the retainer lifts one arm up, and after three heartbeats in which both opponents step into the marked circle, he brings it down sharply as he shouts, "BEGIN!"

Mahanon's body glows with a blinding green flash as he brings a barrier up in the blink after the retainer's signal, and the Magister's fireball is harmlessly absorbed into it. He grins and sets the end of his staff on the ground almost gently, though the blast of shimmering force he casts is anything but light as it slams into the Magister from above and forces him to his knees. Usually, what he calls his 'veil sucker punch' spell is cast in a more flashy manner, but Dorian had advised more contained casting so that he gives far fewer tells about what he was about to toss out. Mahanon had to admit the subtle approach certainly made him seem powerful, and he follows his sucker punch with a flick of his staff as if swatting a fly, which sends lightning arcing from the tip to strike the Magister just staggering to his feet.

The Magister shrugs off the lightning, and before Mahanon quite knows what hit him he finds himself sprawled on his back as if his legs had been yanked from beneath him. Recasting his barrier even as he rolls to his feet, Mahanon lets his smirk fade as he narrows his eyes on his opponent, sensing that he should end this as quickly as possible. He claps his hands together around his staff and sends a large, concentrated burst of energy at the Magister even as the other mage spins his own staff in a glittering arc of purple flame, both spells striking their targets at the same moment. Though Mahanon's bolt sends the other mage to his knees again, he feels the fire burst through his barrier and _burn_ him hotter than flame ought to be. He hears someone gasp sharply as he staggers back, wreathed in a corona of blazing violet-hued fire so consuming that he is blinded by its brightness.

Gritting his teeth through the searing pain, Mahanon is aware that his _staff_ is burning as well, and he summons ice to freeze it only to realize his mistake instantly as the Magister sends out a blast of energy that shatters it. He curses and dives aside to dodge another blast of unnatural purple flame, glances for a split second to Dorian who tosses his own staff, and Mahanon fumbles just slightly as he catches it and turns to unleash a fade-fist of force in the shape of a semi-solid boulder. They trade force blows for the next few moments, testing each others' barriers and reflexes and looking for a weakness to exploit. In the space between breaths, Mahanon fade-steps forward in a rush even as he casts another veil sucker punch, appearing behind the Magister a second after his veil punch strikes the other mage flat on his face.

He whirls to face the Magister and allows himself a smirk as the other mage takes several precious seconds to recover, the garish robes frosted and brittle where the cloth hasn't shattered completely. Mahanon leaps back out of the way as the Magister's staff lashes out blindly, and he casts an ice mine just ahead of the other mage, then flickers away to the opposite side of the ring. He feels his mana stores waver low from the succession of spells and takes the opportunity to catch his breath, all the while keeping a careful eye on the still-stumbling Magister. That proves to be a wise move indeed as the Magister unleashes a fireball right beneath Mahanon's feet, and he has just enough warning to bring up a barrier in time, though the soles of his feet feel slightly toasty.

Flicking out his staff in a casual gesture, Mahanon encases the Magister in a cage of lightning and slowly closes the fist of his free hand, the cage shrinking as he does. However, the Magister seems to have found his second wind from somewhere and Mahanon is thrown back as the cage shatters with explosive force.

"I will _not_ lose," the Magister snarls slowly, each word punctuated by a heavy breath, "to a whoreson _knife-ear_ upstart breeding bitch."

Mahanon blinks, nonplussed, as he scrambles to his feet. "Is that _really_ the best you can do? Did it take you this long to think it up?" he asks as he fade-step dodges another ring of fire, indigo in hue this time.

"Watch out, amatus!"

The warning comes almost too late, and Mahanon sees the Magister reach into his robes even as he fade-steps again, a burst of reddish black sludge flinging through his incorporeal form a second later. At first he thinks he escaped unscathed, but just as he re-materializes he feels a sickening lurch and his world tips sideways in a swirl of color. Brought to his knees and inches away from flat on his face, he almost misses the Magister finally lurch right into his ice mine as he reels, the late-sprung trap giving him enough time to regain his wits and some mana, but just by a heartbeat.

Casting spells feels like he's sucking his very soul dry, but Mahanon musters enough strength to stagger to his feet, his vision still spotty with whatever the residue of that sludge spell had been. He drinks a health potion and two lyrium potions in succession and grimaces as he shakes out tingling limbs. The ice shatters around the Magister and Mahanon lets out a pained yelp of surprise as he feels electricity jolt through his whole body, rooting him in place as his vision whites out, and he crashes back to the ground a moment later. Mahanon loses his grip on Dorian's staff and he dimly hears his lover call out his name as he collapses to the sand, focusing what awareness he has remaining on drawing air into his lungs.

After a few precious moments of blissful peace, Mahanon becomes aware of a voice droning on and he furrows his brow as he picks out a single word from the jumble of sounds: yield. _No_ , he thinks, and surges to his feet before he quite knows what he's doing, moving on pure instinct, his staff returned to his hand. Mahanon's eyes flare bright green to match the mark on his hand, and for a few seconds it's as if he's swathed in the swirling vortex of an open rift, channeling pure fade energy in one last surge of power. Lashing out with his staff, it connects with the Magister's stomach and he sends a lightning burst through its metal shaft into the alpha.

"You _dare_ steal my thunder?" Mahanon intones with a snarl for effect. The anchor blazes anew but restrained as he watches the Magister writhe on the ground, smoke wafting from him in waves and the stench of burning flesh making his eyes water. It seems, however, that the Magister is incapable of answering his question, and he stands there calmly as the body burns up from the inside. Mahanon doesn't fully register what he's seeing until he feels Dorian's arms around him, and only then do his knees give out as his gut lurches in sickening realization.

And then everything fades out.

 

The world returns to Mahanon slowly and he manages a weak, pained groan that comes out more like a croak. He flinches as he feels a warm hand on his brow, then registers Dorian's slightly blurry face above him. He mumbles out an incoherent string of sounds and Dorian smiles in relief for just a moment, then a canteen of water is pressed to Mahanon's lips and his head is held up so he can drink.

"We almost lost you for a bit there, amatus," Dorian murmurs, and Mahanon glaces to him in time to see the other mage swallow hard and blink away unshed tears. "Don't you dare do that ever again."

Mahanon attempts to ask what happened, but the words come out only slightly understandable.

"You won, boss," Iron Bull's voice says from somewhere to Mahanon's left. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, though that was a damn impressive show."

"He used the mark to reach into the fade, burning bright pain like veilfire in his veins, one last push to end the bastard," Cole says from Mahanon's other side, much closer. "Now he's dead, cooked from the inside, rotten meat for vultures like him. He can't hurt anyone anymore. I'm glad."

"That shouty guy dressed like a nug's arsehole tried to call it forfeit 'cause you took Dorian's staff, but I waved an arrow in his face and he changed his mind right quick," Sera calls out from somewhere. "Arsebucket can't call forfeit _after_ a thing is done, it's not fair. You didn't _ask_ for it." Sera shuffles a bit closer, though she still hangs back with unsettled fidgeting. "I'm glad you're on our side, yeah? That shit you pulled was scary. Bit less of that in the future, if you don't mind."

Iron Bull makes a derisive sound. "Yeah, he was a sore loser, but I guess working for tightass does that."

Mahanon snorts on a laugh and then whines in pain, though he's grinning through the spasming of his muscles.

 

The next day they're back at Skyhold, and Mahanon's still a bit wobbly but mostly recovered as he chats amiably with Dorian and Solas, his feet propped up on the table and the rest of him nearly in Dorian's lap.

"It was remarkable, Solas, that thing he did with the mark at the end," Dorian was saying as he petted Mahanon's hair absently.

Mahanon snorts on a laugh and curls up, almost toppling from his now precarious perch as he giggles. It takes a moment for Dorian to realize what he said and then he too is laughing, and Solas stares at them both with a bemused expression.

"Punquisition," Mahanon gasps out between giggles, clinging to Dorian with a death grip to prevent any remaining loss of dignity.

"You were saving that thunderclap line for the perfect opportunity, weren't you, boss?" Iron Bull asks as he sits down on Mahanon's other side, and he grins as he catches the Inquisitor just as the renewed fit of laughter makes him slide off the stone chair. "Magister Tightass's last words sure lacked a certain... spark, don't you think?"

Dorian lets out a heartfelt groan at that and shakes his head. "Anyway, as I was saying, he seemed to use the mark to draw from a rift, but not in a way I've seen either of you use your rift magic before," he says to Solas.

Mahanon rights himself back onto his seat properly and stares at the mark on his hand with a thoughtful frown. "I don't really remember what I did, as by that point I was running on instinct alone," he says, flexing his fingers as he furrows his brow. "I guess I just drew from the Fade through the anchor, not quite opening a rift but close enough?"

"Perhaps you could try to replicate what you did when I am present?" Solas asks, his expression intrigued.

"I'm sure we'll get plenty of opportunities," Mahanon says with a wry smirk.

"Just so we're clear, you're not allowed to have any more near-death experiences, _especially_ including duels," Dorian mutters flatly.


End file.
